


extra-large skinny blackberry mocha latte, two shots of espresso

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (used by Sincline), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Background Keith/Shiro - Freeform, Baristas, Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Homophobic Language, Lotor (Voltron) Is A Mess, M/M, POV Lotor (Voltron), Sincline is Lotor's brother, Slice of Life, Snark, bless his heart, but like a mess who's trying not to act like one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Given his druthers, Lotor would rather not spend his birthday at work. He would also prefer not to work at Café Voltron in the first place, or put up with Lance insisting that there might be more to Lotor than his jackass façade (which there absolutely isn’t, and Lotor is offended that you would suggest such a thing). Needs must, unfortunately — and if nothing else, at least Lance is more or less endearing.“You do not know what I have done to survive and reach this point in my life. You do not know where I have been—”“I don’t know where my jellybeans have been either, and I still eat them just fine—”“How could youpossiblythink to know me when you don’t know the first thing about my past—”“Because I know younow,” Lance protests, halfway to begging. Whether he wants to sound like that or not, he doesn’t seem to care. “I know that you’re tall, purple-haired, and handsome. I know you love to talk about yourself, but hate to talk about yourself—”“That seems like an overly fine semantic hair to split—”





	extra-large skinny blackberry mocha latte, two shots of espresso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoirSongbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirSongbird/gifts).



> Written for Song, who’s been having a rough go of things lately, because she’s great and she likes both Lancelot and AUs. ♡
> 
> Sincline, in here, is like some sort of unholy mash-up of GoLion!Sincline, DOTU!Lotor, Draco Malfoy, Viserys Targaryen, and some things that bother me about how some fans talk about VLD!Lotor. Sincline is Lotor’s twin in the same way that my Shiros almost always end up having Ryous, because I had an idea in the shower, and it sounded like fun, so I did it.
> 
> Aside from that, it’s a silly coffee-shop AU with very little in the way of substance, and I hope that someone enjoys reading it as much as I liked writing it.

Getting a job at Café Voltron may not be the single most demeaning thing that has ever happened in Lotor’s life. However, it ranks within the top ten quite safely. Top five when Keith’s adoptive fathers find themselves in a _Mood_ and decide to order off-menu.

“I swear, they do this to me on purpose,” Lotor grumbles into the misbehaving French press. “Who has ever heard of drinks like these.”

“Hey, man, don’t take it so personal.” Lance rings the bell on the counter and shouts for someone called Richard Hooker to come collect their large macchiato. Tossing a grin back at Lotor he says, “Antok’s always super-particular with everybody.”

Lotor huffs and rolls his eyes. “I am neither daunted nor perturbed by being asked to craft an extra-large black tea latte with two-percent milk, six extra-large scoops of matcha, three pumps of peppermint syrup, two shots of espresso stirred in by hand after allowing the milk and the tea to quote-unquote _mellow_ , and chocolate shavings on top.”

True, he has no idea how Antok can stand to drink such a Frankenstein’s monster concoction or why he ever would, but Lotor is not bothered about being asked to make it for him. Which would be one reason why he’s already part-way through crafting Antok’s beverage. Arguing with the French press for everyone’s sake is simply filling the time while Lotor lets the milk and tea _get used to each other_ , as Antok says.

The other reason is that Antok’s drink is infinitely less tangled than Kolivan’s extra-large robusta slow-drip with a scoop-and-a-half of cocoa powder, two shots of espresso added a third of the way through the brewing, two pumps of peppermint syrup and a pump of Irish cream syrup added halfway through (with the latter pump sandwiched between the shots of peppermint), two more shots of espresso added when the drink is nearly finished, and then stirred by hand, with a fine layer of foam topping. Also, Lotor’s waiting for the moment to add the second round of espresso shots. After that will be the right time to finish Antok’s beverage.

Leaning against the counter at Lotor’s side, Lance’s grin softens. “Well, you’re still making that face,” he says. “Not that it’s a _bad_ face, obviously, not with _that_ bone structure. But it’s the one like you just got puked on by another pill-head while cleaning the bathroom. Or by a sick cat.”

With a knowing pause and an air that begs Lotor to please find him ever-so-charming, Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Or, y’know, maybe like you’re being paranoid and think there’s some kinda grand conspiracy against you.”

“‘Grand conspiracy’ implies that there are multiple parties involved, and that I have no idea what manner of game is afoot.” Sniffing in a way that uncomfortably reminds him of his Mother, Lotor deadpans, “And at the risk of spouting the exact cliche that you expect right now? ‘Paranoid’ implies that there is no one out to get me when, in fact, there is. Kolivan is not particularly subtle about his vendetta, either.”

Which, frankly, is both unfair and asinine, and if Keith’s fathers did not tip so well, Lotor would’ve complained to Coran and Alfor ages ago.

Which, typically tactless, Lance decides that he needs to point out: “Reaching over the counter to put a whole quiznakking Benjamin into your pocket specifically doesn’t sound like a vendetta to me, Prince Loser.”

“He put another ten-spot in the tip jar. Which you should put away before a customer tries to take it.”

Spluttering, Lance nearly drops to the floor from shock. Fortunately, the morning rush has died down enough that Keith’s “smoke break” has no doubt turned into him napping on the couch in Coran’s office. No one is currently queued up to place an order or to steal the employees’ tips. Double-fortunately, Lance recovers quickly. He springs up to grab the tenner with the flourish of a gymnast sticking their perfect landing. After he’s put the bill in the cash box underneath the counter, Lance hops to his feet and strikes an unnecessary victory pose, flinging one arm toward the ceiling.

Lotor does not _smile_ , catching Lance’s endearingly self-satisfied grin out of the corner of his eye. He does not smile because he has no desire to encourage Lance’s antics. But as he stirs Antok’s drink, perhaps Lotor briefly — _very_ briefly — allows himself to smirk down at the cup.

Unfortunately, Lance slumps back into position on the counter, watching the door but edging dangerously close to Lotor’s personal space.

“You know what I think?”

Lotor shrugs and, without a word, reaches for the chocolate shavings.

Groaning, Lance bats the side of his foot at Lotor’s calf. “What I think is,” he says as though he’s announcing the long-awaited cure for literally every form of cancer. “I think that you take so much care with Kolivan and Antok’s drinks because you’re secretly a good person.”

“I give them my best efforts because Kolivan could get me fired and I need this job.” There is nothing welling up in Lotor’s throat as he says this. No veins throb in his forehead, either. “The fact that Keith’s father does not wish to forgive me for my previous feud with his son? Does not alter the facts of my situation.”

None of which are anyone’s business but Lotor’s. One of the only worthwhile lessons he learned from his family: some matters are best kept on a need-to-know basis. Rather than handing Lance the chance to get a word in edgewise — or the chance to feel listened to, if he’s saying anything — Lotor throws himself into the task at hand. Inasmuch as he can, at present. He sets Antok’s and Kolivan’s drinks on the counter, rings the bell, and calls for them.

He does not wait for them to come, not even when Antok might see fit to slip him an extra tip. There are other things that he can use to put some distance between himself and Lance. Perhaps it’s rude, but Lotor has no one to help him distract Lance. Keith is sleeping probably, Allura is rounding up the dirty dishes, and Shay and Plaxum have both gone home. However, they both worked the graveyard shift and stayed on to help with the morning rush because Matt and Pidge called in sick today.

Fortunately, the trash behind the counter has collected far too much and presents a perfect opportunity. Now that there’s a lull in the action, Lotor can bag up everything that he and his coworkers could not rid themselves of while dishing up drinks and pastries to a seemingly endless onslaught of customers. He can cull most of the rubbish around the shop as well. The restrooms will need a separate round of garbage-gathering, but they always do. Lotor also cannot open the box that collects donations for the LGBTQ community center over on Charles Street, because people regularly fill it with empty straw wrappers and used napkins, but only Coran and Alfor have the box’s key — temporarily irksome but understandable. Shortly before Lotor got his job, they were forced to dismiss a barista for stealing said donations.

Everything works out according to plan until Lotor heads back toward the alley. As he skulks off and keeps his head down, Lance shouts after him, “Be sure to check the dumpster before you throw anything in there!”

*** * ***

Although Lotor rolled his eyes at Lance’s advice, he _does_ check inside the dumpster before simply tossing the bags where he will. After too many instances of throwing bags of refuse on a homeless person and waking (if not outright injuring) them, this procedure has become a reflex. A part of the job that Lotor barely needs to think about, in the same way that he did not need to think about tossing his black zip-up sweatshirt on over top of his apron. November, so far, has been chilly and his wallet is in his hoodie’s pocket.

Finding no one sleeping among the garbage, Lotor deposits the bags easily. Hugging himself, he slouches against the brick wall on the side of the dumpster that’s further from the door. True, it isn’t exactly _privacy_ , but relative to the counter and the break-room, it could be solitary confinement.

He ought to head right back in without delay, but on the other hand? He’s due for a smoke break. If an unexpected conga line of customers stumbles in and Lance needs additional help, Kolivan will simply ignore the _Employees Only_ sign on the office door and rouse his son. Morning shifts have no regard for whatever Keith was doing last night or how long he kept at it, despite knowing when he was scheduled to work today. He only has more leeway than anyone else with on-the-job naps because, in addition to considering most of the Café Voltron staff his family, Alfor has a particular fondness for Keith.

Not that Lotor harbors any jealousy. Why would he? Having that camaraderie with the café’s owner must be nice.

Tucking his long, purple cowlick behind his ear, Lotor stares up at the clouds. Slate gray and heavy, they threaten to dump an early(-ish) snow all over town, which would be exactly what Lotor needs on a day like today. Survivable? Yes, and more easily than some people might guess. But nevertheless, snow would annoy Lotor and require extra effort to handle. Even if Zethrid does most of the heavy lifting at home as usual, Lotor will need to do _something_ helpful. His friends so often accept so much less than his best. Indeed, they so often accept his very worst and he owes them so much more for everything that they put up with from him.

Letting his eyes slip shut, Lotor sighs. He’s going inside now. He is _going_ to return inside now. Lotor needs this job, and he is going to—

Before he can so much as move, someone loudly clears their throat.

Lotor startles into full, straight-backed posture and whips around, cranes his neck toward the door. He furrows his brow, finding no one visible, and whoever jerked him back into the moment gives a softer, more polite cough. Hearing them say his name, Lotor chokes down a groan. As he turns to the sidewalk, he plasters on a phony smile so tight that his mouth threatens to rip itself apart. It doesn’t make good on that threat, but Lotor would hardly blame it. He would not blame his entire face for literally cracking, in response to this golden-skinned, smooth-featured interruption.

Instead of allowing that to happen, Lotor forces his lips to stay in place and forces himself to meet the interloper’s gaze.

A thin, pale blonde eyebrow arches pointedly, skeptically. “I realize that proper etiquette is hardly at a premium in an establishment such as this,” he says, coolly. “But really, Lotor: is that any way to greet your brother? Your twin, your _only_ brother?”

“Obviously it is, or I would have granted you a different reception.” If things are going to be like this today, then Lotor’s free to recline against the wall and fold his arms over his chest. “What do you _want_ , Sincline. Carrying water for the witch and her husband? Threats, perhaps? Water which has, in keeping with our traditions, been liberally laced with threats and possibly poison?”

With a noncommittal shrug, Sincline straightens the sleeves of his tailored suit-jacket. It’s black. Crisp. Armani, if Lotor had to hazard a guess. His brother has the cuffs fastened with family heirloom links: silver with inlaid amethyst, and the House of Mireth’s old coat of arms carved into the dark purple of the gems. Where Lotor has dyed his long ponytail a similar, if more shocking, shade, Sincline has left his short enough to slick back and the same pallid shade that their Mother had before hers went completely, violently, vampire-white. Under the faint sunlight, Lotor can make out more color than usual in his brother’s hair. Most of the time, it’s so pale that it might as well be white itself.

Advancing on Lotor, Sincline gives his well-polished shoes the sound of drumroll before an execution. His smirk is an oil spill across his otherwise fine features, and his eyes glint like a piece of shattered glass being held to Lotor’s throat. As though it weren’t bad enough already that he’s seen fit to make Lotor feel like an underdressed street urchin for wearing old jeans and a Depeche Mode t-shirt underneath his apron.

“This café is where you’ve been working?” Sincline says lightly. “It has a certain quaint charm, based on the storefront, but I do not see the appeal.”

Lotor huffs. “What charm does it need? Unlike you, I adore cleaning up university students’ vomit and making unnecessarily complicated coffee-adjacent beverages to the tune of a crying child’s symphony in the key of migraine.”

“You adore _causing_ migraines.” That eyebrow threatens to climb off Sincline’s forehead. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“Yes: Go jump in front of a bus.” Lotor allows himself to smirk at the way Sincline’s eyes dull over. “Oh, my apologies. Forgive me for not using the proper etiquette befitting a man of your station. _Please_ go jump in front of a bus.”

“Always so obstinate. Since I know that you cannot have forgotten, I had thought you might prefer to say…” He pauses as if he expects Lotor to give in and surrender what he wants to hear — but when he doesn’t, Sincline tells him, “Happy birthday, little brother.”

He holds his arms out and beckons, quirking his fingers as if Lotor is a child or a dog.

Lotor wrinkles his nose. “I do not hug.”

“You have hugged _Zethrid_ and _Acxa_ where I could see you do so. I assume that you have also hugged the other two dyk—” Sincline stops himself just in time and holds up both hands in mock-surrender. “The other two _lesbians_.”

“Corrections abound. First, Ezor and Narti are proudly _bisexual_. They do not magically cease being bisexual because they are currently dating each other. Secondly…” Lotor rolls his eyes as if doing it again will make Sincline get the point. “Allow me to amend my previous statement: I do not hug _you_.”

“You would rather hug a bunch of bull-dykes than your own _brother_ —”

“For one thing, you do not know what that word means, nor is it your place to use it.” Lotor takes a deep breath and refuses to let himself clamp his hand down on his elbow until he starts to hurt himself. “For another? Yes. I would much rather hug my _friends_ than someone whose fiancée broke things off with him amidst rumors that the witch and her semi-sentient dildo paid her off so that she would not press sexual assault charges against their son.”

That, finally, makes Sincline’s cheeks flush. Makes him scowl in disgust. “What happened between myself and Merla is none of your concern. As ever, you remain impossibly ignorant of what you attempt to discuss. If you so insistently distance yourself from your _family_ , then you lose the right to comment on our affairs, thanks to how little you know of what truly—”

“I know that Merla is a cold, calculating, domineering hellcat who has an overly inflated opinion of herself and seems to legitimately believe that she is a queen. Yet, despite all the reasons why I and most people dislike her personally, she deserves better than being married to the likes of you.”

Pushing himself off the wall, Lotor shakes out his ponytail as if nothing can bother him. Of course, Sincline can see through the ruse. As Lotor elbows past his brother, he harbors no delusions to the contrary. After all, Sincline has only known him since before they were born, so he has undeniable experience in handling Lotor’s moods. Learning his way around the things that Lotor values and the right buttons to push with him. No doubt, that was his entire notion in coming here today and rubbing their birthday in Lotor’s face, shoving Lotor headfirst into the wealth and conventional success he has accumulated.

Regardless of what Sincline wants, though, Lotor needs to get back to work. As he closes in on the door, Sincline catches him by the elbow. He tries to tear himself away. But either Sincline has hit the gym lately, or perhaps Lotor has not been eating well enough, because Sincline grips on tight. He doesn’t let Lotor get free, and doesn’t let go of his arm until Lotor sighs, deigns to turn and face his brother.

Although Lotor expects Sincline to berate him in the same way that he always has, all that Sincline does is reach into his jacket. He pulls out a thick envelope and, without a word, shoves it into the front pocket on Lotor’s apron.

“Five thousand dollars—”

“Take it back,” Lotor hisses. “Keep it.”

“If you would rather work here than come back home, I hardly think that you are in a position to refuse—”

“I do not want your conditions—”

“There are none—”

“And I do not want your _blood money_ —”

“It is a birthday present—”

“Considering how Zarkon and Hagnerva make their living,” Lotor snarls, “I feel comfortable with my choice of description.”

Sincline purses his lips. “You ought to show our parents more respect.”

“I will show the pair of them respect when they do anything to deserve it.” Lotor steps away until he presses up against the door, but never breaks off from glaring at Sincline. “I will do the same for you. I need to get back to my shift.”

Tucking his cowlick back behind his ear, Lotor spits at Sincline’s feet. “Next time the witch and her precious, whipped attack dog wish to pry into my affairs? Tell them to send _Sendak_ instead of you. At least he has any semblance of integrity.”

Sincline glowers. “Of course,” he deadpans, when Lotor turns away. “How could I forget that faggots stick together.”

So many responses burn the surface of Lotor’s tongue, but he swallows all of them. Instead of handing Sincline an answer, Lotor huffs inside. The plan he cooks up is perfect, save for how the community center’s donation box won’t let him simply shove the envelope inside. At worst, this seems a momentary delay. The shop is relatively empty, so Lotor should be able to take out the bills and force wads of them through the slit. No one should pay enough attention to see him doing this. As he hits the bottom of the envelope, he feels certain that he has escaped anyone’s notice — especially Lance’s, because he would have been _much_ louder, had he seen anything.

When Lotor turns from the donation box, he spots Kolivan. Sitting at his table, surprisingly sans Antok (though his coat hangs off one of the chairs), and arching an eyebrow even higher than Sincline did outside. But he says nothing as Lotor storms behind the counter, just in time to meet a customer. Taking down the notes for exactly how she wants her peppermint macchiato, Lotor tries to put Kolivan out of his mind entirely.

*** * ***

“Hey, can I ask you for a favor?”

Midway through assembling thirteen hot chocolates, each one slightly different from the others, Lotor glances toward Keith, currently negotiating with the French press. This has the unintended side-effect of making him glance toward Lance as well, possibly of making Lotor notice the way that Lance scrunches his face up like a kitten after letting slip a yawn. But the coworker currently demanding Lotor’s attention is not the unfortunately cute string-bean whose apron conceals one of his twenty-some-odd Kesha t-shirts.

No, the one clearing his throat and repeating his question has black perpetual bedhead and the worst case of resting bitch-face that Lotor has ever seen in his life. He’s so short relative to Lotor and Lance that, were Lotor in the mood for a fight, he might call Keith, “pocket-sized.” Perhaps he might go with, “pipsqueak” today. Never fails to get a rise out of Keith, pointing out his height.

But fighting on the job earns them nothing, so Lotor shrugs instead. “That might depend on the nature of said favor.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith grumbles, “It’s a favor for _Shiro_ , Prince Fuckhead. Not for me.”

“Well, in that case: ask away.” Lotor double-checks his notes on the order and scribbles _Elsa_ on the large hot chocolate with skim milk and five pumps of peppermint syrup. “Without knowing what I’m up against, I can make no guarantees. But I will give your beloved my best efforts.”

It would be easier to give Keith this opportunity if Lotor hadn’t made Lance perk up and glance over his shoulder as if no one can see him so blatantly eavesdropping. Although Lotor knows better than to grouse about this at his typical volume and risk another customer complaint about his alleged attitude problem, he would rather like to call Lance out about attempting to pry like this. No matter where Keith and Lotor are talking to each other, and no matter the volume at which they are holding this conversation, whatever they discuss lies quite securely in the realm of Things That Are Not And Will Never Be Even Remotely Lance’s Business.

However, distraction cannot be afforded. As Lotor starts in on the double-flavor hot chocolate with two-percent milk, a shot of espresso, two pumps of vanilla syrup, and chocolate drizzle but no whipped cream, Lotor knows he cannot deny most requests that Keith would ever make for Shiro’s sake. He especially cannot attempt to refuse simply because Lance has little functional understanding of boundaries. Lotor owes Shiro more than he has begun to repay, and Keith wouldn’t ask Lotor anything without first considering at least fifty alternate options.

Ignoring Lance, Keith sighs and motions for Lotor to hand over the black marker. “Something’s been going weird with Shiro’s arm lately,” he explains, scribbling a name onto the coffee he’s made. “It was hard enough to talk him into maybe letting _you_ take a look at it—”

“I hardly blame him for his resistance, in this case. One of the only other people he could turn to for assistance is my Mother, who—”

“Who is scary beyond all reason and has a sketchy understanding of ethics.”

“That is an insult to sketches and to anything that has ever been deemed, ‘sketchy.’” Lotor pauses long enough to let Keith ring the bell and call for his customer. When he has Keith’s attention back, he prods, “What sort of trouble has Shiro had lately?”

“Mostly seems like a lot of routine, ‘He needs a check-up or a tuneup or something’ stuff.” Keith slouches, dragging a hand back through his bangs. “At least, what I’ve seen of it has been like that. But he’ll be able to tell you about it better, and I don’t think that he’s been _lying_ to me about any of it, not really? But then it’s like he’s kinda—”

“Your beloved so often dismisses his own pain, and due to his quite troubling pattern, you find yourself growing _concerned_ —”

“Yeah, exactly.” Slumping against the counter by the good espresso machine, Keith peers at the ceiling. “So, will you look at his arm?”

“Of course,” Lotor nearly whispers, dropping his voice so that (hopefully) only Keith can hear him. “Send Shiro a text. Tell him to bring me something from Sal’s when he comes. That way, I will not need to forage for lunch and he can have as much of my time as this task might require. I’ll have Acxa bring over my tools.”

“Thanks, Lotor,” Keith says, downright gently by his standards. “I have to take a piss. Then, I’ll round up the bathroom trash and shoot him a text.”

This game-plan is so perfect that no one ought to question it.

And yet, Keith hasn’t returned by the time Lotor gets to work on the final hot chocolate in this order (extra large, no foam or whip, made with soy milk and two shots of espresso, also made with soy milk, for someone called _Eureka_ ). Worse, Lance slumps close to where Keith was leaning before. If Lotor were not currently using the good espresso machine, he might mind less. As it stands, however, Lance hovers dangerously close to Lotor’s personal space, right up against the edge and wearing his Trademark Smirk #17. This particular smirk is an equal mix of curious, gassy, and endearingly smug.

At least, Lance _would_ look endearingly smug if he were not turning said smirk on Lotor.

“You’re doing something nice,” Lance says as Lotor scribbles the name onto the last cup.

“I am doing my job like a responsible person who enjoys _not_ getting fired.”

With a huff, Lotor moves the three drink-carriers over to the counter and rings the bell. Once the customer has claimed their prize, he expects to return to the register — but stops in his tracks as he finds Lance leaning closer to him, continuing to smirk. As though Number 17 weren’t bad enough already, Lance edges into Trademark Smirk #23, the one he makes when he feels quite certain that he knows a secret of some importance, most likely one that someone else doesn’t want him to go sharing with his small army of followers on Tumblr and Twitter. Or one that he wasn’t meant to know in the first place. Or even, as in this case, a secret that does not exist.

When Lotor bats him aside and takes his place behind one register, Lance whines as if he’s been refused the pony that he so badly wanted. He slumps onto the other register with a groan and props himself up on his elbows.

“Y’know, you can deny it all you want,” he says. “But I _know_ you aren’t the dick that you want everyone to think you are.”

The bell on the front door rings as a middle-aged woman enters with two small boys trailing after her. Both of them wail about what kinds of cookies they want and what they think they’re going to do if the café doesn’t have the ones they want in stock today. As much as Lotor hates dealing with children — especially screamers like these obnoxious little twerps — he plasters on his best Customer Service Smile. Better to handle someone who might tip him than to waste energy on trying to make his coworker behave when, in all likelihood, Lance doesn’t know the meaning of that word and never will.

Even so, as he waits for her to decide what she wants, Lotor hisses a deadpan, “You know _nothing_ , Lance Esparza.”

*** * ***

As if on cue, Shiro comes in around when Lotor’s getting hungry for a lunch-break, carrying both a bag from Sal’s Deli a few blocks over and a leash. Attached to it, with her tail bouncing as excitedly as ever, his bright-eyed Samoyed Aurora wears the little red vest and collar that identify her as a trained service and emotional support dog. If not for those markers, she would need to wait outside the café.

Seeing as he works here too, Coran and Alfor would never kick Shiro out for hanging around the café without ordering anything. Even so, he swings by the counter to order his usual extra-large robusta drip, as black as they’re legally allowed to serve it.

Before Keith can get started making it, Shiro leans across the counter to peck him on the lips and whisper, “Thanks for being so good to me, baby.”

“Yeah, like I’d ever be _bad_ for you outside the bedroom,” Keith snarks, and steals a kiss of his own. “Go sit. I’ll send Lotor over when it’s ready.”

Lotor purses his lips but doesn’t allow himself to cringe, much less say anything. He may not be used to such easy, open affection as Keith and Shiro share with each other, but he can’t begrudge them that happiness. Or their ostensibly perpetual joy over having someone in their lives who makes them so happy. Even if Lotor didn’t owe Shiro as much as he does, the fraction he knows of what Keith and Shiro have survived in their lives is awful enough. They _deserve_ to be happy. Good for them, finding that bliss together. At least someone around here isn’t romantically lonely and miserable (in addition to whatever is going on with Allura, Shay, and Hunk, which Lotor doesn’t understand but also figures is likely not his business).

Not that Lotor is miserable either. Not that he hunches his shoulders like a defensive cat and, briefly, catches himself looking around the shop for Lance. Not that he bristles when he ducks back to the break-room to grab his glasses and his tools, and he can’t find any signs of Lance — why would he have any reason to bristle? Lotor isn’t jealous of anyone. He _doesn’t_ feel questionably so he doesn’t need to improve his mood by prodding at Lance or riling him up.

Either way, Lotor certainly does not choke down a sigh of relief when Keith finally finishes Shiro’s coffee.

“What in creation is wrong with you,” Lotor deadpans as he hands it over. “Why would you _want_ to be here on your day off.”

“Guess I’m just an incurable masochist.” Shiro smiles easily as Aurora drops her head into his lap and ruffles his organic hand over her ears. With a shrug, he adds, “Also, all my friends are here, except Hunk and the Holts. And I don’t want to see them until they stop being contagious, anyway.”

With a faux-pensive hum, Lotor helps himself to the seat that Shiro gestures at. Before they can start on the day’s real problem, two issues must get addressed. First, Lotor sniffs at the bag that Shiro brought him. He doesn’t recognize the heady, spicy scent at first, but he grins when he cracks the Styrofoam container open. Oh, the house lasagna has gotten so much better since Sal started giving Hunk more leeway in the kitchen, and today’s mix makes Lotor’s mouth water. The serving that Hunk and Sal dished up will likely last Lotor for dinner, possibly even tomorrow’s breakfast.

Secondly, as he digs a plastic fork into his lunch, Lotor tells Shiro to run down the symptoms he’s had with his arm lately.

Shiro blushes pink and, reflexively, his right hand twitches. Curls its high-tech metal fingers into a ball and makes him grit his teeth to uncurl them again. It might be a quirk that nobody could help, the way that Shiro’s arm can reveal so much about the feelings he represses, if one simply pays him enough attention and learns to read the signs. His prosthetic is nearly one-of-a-kind. It runs on technology advanced enough that practically no one can understand it, much less help Shiro when things need looking after, and the way that the arm connects to his brain and nervous system has several potential pitfalls.

On the other hand, though, Lotor’s Mother made the arm. It was a sheer publicity stunt, Hagnerva’s attempt at saving face for the family business after one of their then-interns got near-fatally injured due to unsafe working conditions and her husband’s negligence. Lotor would not put anything past his Mother, not even including some manner of trick in the arm to make it essentially capable of hacking into Shiro’s mind. True, Lotor has never seen any evidence that Shiro’s arm can really do that — but for all he understands his Mother’s work, there are no doubt pieces that he misses.

Sighing heavily, Shiro slumps onto his elbows. “It really hasn’t gotten _that_ bad, yet—”

“That ‘yet’ sounds particularly loaded, darling—”

“Yeah, it probably _should_ sound loaded.” Combing his organic fingers back through his hair, Shiro pauses to think things over. After a few moments, he explains, “It’s been doing the twitchy thing more often than usual. Even when there isn’t anything that I’m not saying. I’ve been misjudging how much pressure I need more often—”

“ _That_ must make certain intimate things terribly awkward with Keith. Not to mention with the emergency room staff, when you attempt to clarify the situation.” Around a mouthful of lasagna, Lotor adds, “And, of course, with your beloved’s dick.”

“There’s the jerk I know and love,” Shiro mutters, cheeks flushing again. “I don’t use my prosthetic so much in the bedroom. Limited use only, and specifically so it _doesn’t_ hurt Keith like that. Here we are, you almost let me think you were planning to behave yourself—”

“I have never behaved myself in my entire life, Takashi, and it offends me that you would suggest such a thing.”

“You should give yourself more credit—”

“You should finish telling me about your arm.”

Although he nods compliantly, Shiro gives Lotor a knowing smirk. “Anyway, the problem has been notable because I’ve had trouble using the same amounts of pressure that I’ve gotten accustomed to. A few glasses have gotten dropped around our place. Last night, I shattered one. Overcompensated a bit. Put in too much pressure, didn’t realize it until I got shards all over the counter.” Shiro huffs like he might be done, then decides to tack on, “The twitching is the part that I’ve been downplaying most to Keith. It usually acts up more around other people—”

“Several potential problems come to mind,” Lotor cuts in with a huff. “The most likely ones are quite simple to repair.”

“What about the ones that _aren’t_ very likely?”

“Well…” Lotor purses his lips and gives Shiro a pensive hum. “That will remain to be seen.”

“Cryptic and unhelpful.” An arched eyebrow earns Shiro nothing but a shrug, so he reaches down to ruffle Aurora’s ears again. “I’m just saying: this whole thing is worrisome enough already. Could you maybe, I don’t know? Try to reassure me about whether or not everything is going to be okay? As my friend?”

That word does it. _Friend_ , said so simply that it sounds nigh on careless, without any accusations behind it. Without much inflection in the first place, let alone any tacit poison lurking underneath the syllables. Shiro just throws the word, _“Friend”_ out there between the them as though it’s really that easy. As though it’s in no way noteworthy for that word to get thrown around between them. As though he says it for people all the time, and not, _“more often than Lotor, but considering that Lotor only says it about Acxa, Ezor, Narti, Zethrid, and Shiro, this doesn’t mean much about how often Shiro deems other people friends.”_

As though he doesn’t know what that word means to Lotor — which he _does_ , and Shiro _knows_ that Lotor knows this.

Not that the word’s significance to Lotor — or to Shiro, for that matter — is particularly important when they have more important things to handle and only so much time before he will need to get back to work. With a sigh, he scoots his closer to the table. Flicking his cowlick off his face, he closes up the container of lasagna and slides it away. Leaves the plastic fork inside it for later. He motions for Shiro to set his arm on the table, puts on his glasses so he can have a better view of the inner workings of and fine details within Shiro’s prosthetic.

Although Shiro cooperates, he angles his arm away from Lotor, blocking his access to the panel on the inside of his wrist. Under normal circumstances, Lotor couldn’t blame him for having that protective streak. The panel covers up some of the most important and most accessible circuits, microchips, and wires in Shiro’s prosthetic. Anyone could wreak an unfathomable amount of havoc, if they got into his arm through there.

Under the present circumstances, however, he arches an eyebrow as if he expects something before he’ll allow Lotor to do his work, and Lotor would very much like to roll his eyes. If it would not make Shiro _less_ inclined to let him work, he would do it.

With a sigh, he makes himself look Shiro in the eye and tells him, “I will do whatever I can to prevent you from needing to pay my Mother a visit. Most of the unlikely explanations for why your arm has given you such trouble fall within the realm of things that I understand enough to fix. Most of them will not be terribly dangerous, relative to everything else that could go wrong with your arm and _especially_ relative to everything of which my Mother is capable. I may not be able to repair any of those problems immediately, because we may need to find the parts that I need. Even if your issues stem from more straightforward wear and tear, that step may make itself necessary, but in all likelihood, it will not be difficult to repair.”

Lotor pauses to center himself and draw in several deep breaths. “However,” he adds, “I will know _nothing_ of value to anybody if you do not allow me to do my work. As much as you might prefer a more soothing attempt at reassurance, I would rather not risk lying to you. Before I have more evidence about what, exactly, is to blame for your arm’s current problems, I would not feel comfortable saying anything else that I could offer you in the way of consolation.”

Finally, Shiro relents, gives Lotor a nod and a small smile, and rolls his wrist so Lotor can get at it.

Cracking open the access panel provides no immediate answers, but that’s to be expected. At least the standard diagnostic pokes and prods are simple enough. Even the more complicated ones are elementary procedures, things that Lotor knows more or less by rote. Easy to perform, relatively painless for Shiro, and his fingers hardly jerk at all. Mother’s work is more complicated, further up Shiro’s arm. Deeper in his wrist, the wires are more tangled, must work harder to better emulate the tendons, nerves, and muscles that Shiro used to have in his organic right arm. But Mother would never inconvenience herself by over-complicating what lies immediately beneath the access panel.

After running his tests, Lotor looks back up at Shiro. He flinches, whining when Shiro pushes his glasses up for him.

Rather than dignify Shiro’s shit-eating grin with a response, Lotor huffs. “Good news, the problem _does_ seem to be down to wear and tear. Not _simple_ wear and tear, as _you_ might say, but it is straightforward. Nothing amiss with any of your processors or microchips, thankfully. I can also give you a tune-up right now—”

“I’d appreciate that—”

“Then I have the time and you shall have a tune-up,” Lotor says. “Potentially problematic findings, however? Without replacing some of the wires in your wrist, there may be only so much that I can do to help you.”

Although Shiro doesn’t quite pale, he visibly gulps. “How difficult will that be?”

“On _your_ part? You will need to sit still, refrain from being terribly distracting, and resist the impulse to play backseat engineer. As for me, I may ask Hunk and/or Acxa to assist, but the procedure itself? Will be more time-consuming than anything.”

Lotor sighs, considering every word and every aspect of the situation before he attempts to delve deeper into explaining anything. “First, I will want to order the wires that you need. Acxa and I _should_ have some spares, but I don’t know how old the ones in our supply kit at home are. If your situation worsens in the next few days, those wires would be better than nothing, but I would prefer to wait, as long as that is agreeable to you. Fixing your arm requires more care and better quality parts than any of the arguably unholy things that I’ve done with the electronics at mine and the ladies’ homestead.”

Pausing now is primarily so that Shiro can keep up. Although he’s easily one of the smartest people Lotor has ever met, he didn’t ever work at Mother’s side. He has never wasted so many sleepless nights, hard at work and studying all her research and her projects, learning her secrets, finding the patterns that come up across her different designs, and hoping that she might approve. Lest they risk getting out of Shiro’s depth, he needs a moment to take things in and process them.

When he nods in understanding, Lotor adds, “Second, we will need time to work. A day when neither of us is scheduled for a shift would be ideal. You or Keith may need to explain the situation to Allura or Coran as well, so that they will know _not_ to summon or otherwise bother us—”

“I think they’d listen if you went to them, under the circumstances.”

Lotor gives Shiro a flat, silent look and hopes that it perfectly captures how unimpressed he is with this idea.

Shiro shrugs as if he can’t tell the difference between a peppermint mocha with two pumps of vanilla syrup and a vanilla mocha with two pumps of peppermint syrup. “All I’m suggesting is that Allura and Coran might not distrust you as much as you think. Also, that they’d be more inclined to believe what’s going on if they heard it from _both_ of us.”

Whether or not Shiro is right about that, Lotor pushes up his glasses, picks out his favorite screwdriver and clamps, and gets to work on the tune-up. For now, his available options are primarily limited to tightening screws and readjusting connections. Making sure that Shiro’s wires have room to move with his arm but aren’t as likely to borderline detach themselves or to get twisted up and fall short of the points they are supposed to meet. Fixing up what he can, where he can, because Shiro already needs to deal with his arm periodically malfunctioning and he already needs to lug around a reminder that Mother nearly made him dependent on her. If Lotor can help his friend avoid any further difficulties, then he should.

Fortunately for both of them, it doesn’t take long to go over the different pieces with which Lotor can offer assistance, or to get them aligned how he wants. Unfortunately for Lotor’s desire to munch on more of his lasagna, Aurora perks up. She lifts her head out of Shiro’s lap and leans it back, sniffing skeptically, before pointing her nose at one of the other patrons. A boy in a black Gucci overcoat with a questionable bleach job and a Louis Vuitton bag sitting by his patent leather shoes. He got an extra-large drink in a to-go cup, but for some reason, decided to drink it in the shop. Irksome, but nothing about him obviously screams _wrong_.

When a little, white Pomeranian sticks its head out of the purse and yaps at Aurora, Lotor can’t help groaning. If anyone but Shiro and Aurora notices, then they mercifully say nothing. He glances over at the counter, hoping that someone will be able to spare Lotor from handling the task that he sees before him. Since Keith, Lance, and Allura all seem busy, Lotor excuses himself and huffs over to Gucci Boy’s table.

“Excuse me,” he says, knocking on her table. He taps the employee name-tag pinned to his chest, so Gucci Boy knows that he isn’t some random interloper. “The café does not allow pets to pay visits with you. Unless you can leash up your dog outside, you will need to leave.”

Fluttering his eyelashes and faking a smile, he coos, “You can’t make an exception just for me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Princess is well-behaved… Nobody would need to know—”

“The fact that I have already spotted her? Indicates that _somebody_ would likely figure out that she is here. Then, there would be trouble, the next time that someone else wanted to bring a dog into the café, which would still be against our policies.” Lotor should not need to point this out so bluntly or so thoroughly — but on the other hand, it comes as somewhat less than a surprise. This boy looks like so many of the spoilt brats who Lotor grew up around, and they would not believe that rules applied to them, either. “Moreover, _Princess_ poses a threat to any potential customer with allergies. She could also lead to multiple violations of local and state health codes—”

“Excuse me, but what about your friend over there?” Gucci Boy moves from pouting to glaring at Lotor as though he can terrify him into submission. At least he has enough commitment to this act not to back down when Lotor folds his arms over his chest and arches his eyebrow down at her. “He has that giant, fluff-ball mutt over there—”

“Unlike your Princess? Aurora is a _service dog_ , hence the red vest.” As he gestures back toward Aurora, Lotor struggles to maintain composure and fights harder not to roll his eyes. “Her presence in the café is a disability accommodation. Your attempts at keeping _Princess_ here, however, are merely callous disregard for the well-beings and livelihoods of other people.”

“You can’t talk to me like that, I am a _customer_ here—”

“You are refusing to listen to the café’s policies, putting both other customers and the café at risk, _and_ you justified this behavior by making light of accommodating people with disabilities — at the expense of someone who, yes, is my friend.” Lotor flicks his cowlick off his face and narrows his eyes. “I will speak to you however I please until you understand that, due to your attempt at smuggling in Princess, _you_. Need. To. _Leave_.”

Gucci Boy inhales sharply and tells Lotor, “I’d like to speak to your _manager_ , please.”

“Fine,” Lotor snaps. “Keep an eye on your dog until he gets here.”

On his way back to Coran’s office, Lotor pauses only twice. First, to gather his lunch while whispering an apology to Shiro and a reminder that he has done nothing wrong. Despite the soft smile that Shiro gives him, it never hurts to remind him not to blame himself for other people’s stupidity.

Second, at the counter, simply to fill Allura in on what’s going on and let her know that he’ll be back from his lunch-break shortly. She’s the shift manager, and so she could attempt to lay down the law with Gucci Boy — but considering that Allura has been working behind the counter for so long, Gucci Boy might refuse to take her seriously. Worse yet, Gucci Boy could dismiss her on the grounds that she is a girl and earn himself a place on the ever-updating shit-list that the Café Voltron staff keeps in the back. He’s well on his way to earning that spot already. Disrespecting Allura on the basis of her gender would simply provide a final straw that no one who works here would dispute.

The latter stop might go more easily if Lance didn’t insist on grinning like he knows something that Lotor doesn’t. But it’s no matter. If Lance wants to insist on being wrong about things that he doesn’t understand, then that’s his business. Lotor has a manager to fetch and a sinking suspicion that one of the perpetually drug-addled college student regulars might have passed out in the restroom.

*** * ***

“You know what I think your deal is, Prince Loser?”

There’s a lull in the action before the evening rush begins, and Lotor finds himself and Lance effectively by themselves. Not technically alone — out on the floor, for example, Shiro still sits at his table with Aurora curled up on his feet, while Florona tidies up the tables where customers didn’t bother to clean up their own dishes and/or trash — but Lance and Lotor volunteered to cover for the Holts and are the only ones currently behind the counter.

Things won’t stay this calm for long. In due time, customers will swamp into the café, desperate for a caffeine fix and possibly a scone or two, something to take the edge off after they’ve gotten off work or gotten out of classes for the day. Although Allura broke off after her shift ended, Keith is sacked out on the sofa again so that he’ll properly be on his game. If his alarm doesn’t rouse him on its own, then Shiro’s ready to go wake his beloved (or even help out, should that become necessary). Nyma and Vakala are running late to start their shifts, but they and Florona will be here all night. Considering that, Lotor’s willing to suppose that they’re either getting ready for a graveyard shift or perhaps stuck in traffic. As long as Nyma and Vakala get to the café before the rush, no one will hold a few minutes’ delay against them.

If they show up _after_ the rush begins, then that will be a different story. The morning rush might be worse for volume of customers, but the evening rush has more snapping, more yelling, and fewer people who understand how to leave fair tips. Café Voltron and its staff are only a few minutes away from tipping over the edge back into mundane madness.

No doubt, Lance realizes this too, slumped by one of the registers with his back to the door and one of his _“please find me endearing”_ grins turned right on Lotor. He’s worked here for longer than Lotor has; there’s no way that Lance _can’t_ know how little time they have for whatever nonsense he thinks he’s on about, this time. That does not stop him, though. Trying to channel the dashing rogue he wants everyone to think he is, Lance folds his arms over his chest and squirms. He pulls a face as the small of his back digs into the counter’s edge, but as Lotor leans back opposite him, Lance’s wiggling hips provide the bigger distraction.

“Dude, did you hear what I said—”

“I heard you perfectly, Sir Lancelot. I simply cannot discern what you want to hear.”

“Something _honest_ is usually a good bet, when you’re talking to people—”

“When you’re trying to force a moment,” Lotor tells him, “then a good bet might be getting to your point. Ideally, before the person with whom you want to have said moment gets annoyed and tries to tune you out by cleaning off the stirring sticks again. Just in case you and Keith forgot to do so.”

“I don’t know about Mullet Boy, but I didn’t forget _anything_!” Lance’s cheeks go bright red, and if he were to ask, Lotor would begrudgingly admit that he looks terribly cute while blushing like this. But hunching over with a pout, Lance says, “Look, all I wanted to say was that I _know_ about what you did with the community center’s donation box.”

Traitorous as it always gets toward the end of the workday, Lotor’s own face decides to flush hot. “How could I steal anything from it,” he hisses, trying not to remember that moment. “I don’t have the key—”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Lance groans. “You can’t even admit that you did _one_ good thing?”

“How do _you_ know what I did or didn’t.”

“Kolivan told Antok, who told Keith, who told Allura, which I overheard because Keith tends to suck at things like volume control,” Lance rattles off as though it’s really just that simple. As if he hasn’t been on the job all day himself, and hasn’t had any of his energy sapped by their godawful, exhausting work. “I just don’t get it, okay? How can you be totally cut off, then still dump all those hundreds into the donation box like you don’t need it?”

Lotor shrugs. “The money came from people with whom I want no further ties or contact. Five thousand dollars could help the community center and the people who need their services. More importantly, if I do not keep the money, then my parents and my brother cannot dig their claws into me or pull my strings. Whatever you think about what you heard? My motivations were wholly selfish, purely venal, and entirely about myself and my own desires. Nothing else informed my choice, and certainly nothing as altruistic as you want to believe.”

It’s an uncommonly open answer for Lotor, but that is what Lance said he wanted. Perhaps he isn’t admitting to any of what Lance wants to discuss, and perhaps he insists on denying what Lance thinks he knows. But the confusion knotting up Lance’s features could easily let Lotor off the hook.

“It’s nothing, I just…” Lance sighs. He briefly perks up at the door opening, but sighs in relief when it’s only Nyma, who heads back to drop her things in the break-room. Looking back to Lotor, his face soft with curiosity and with caution, Lance says, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Aside from how we are genetically identical and shared a womb, Sincline hardly deserves that title.” But that is hardly Lance’s point, so Lotor adds, “Please don’t take my pointing out your ignorance so personally. There are several reasons why I do not discuss him. You are far from the only person who has no idea that Sincline exists.”

“Well, _okay_ sure, but seriously? How come I didn’t even _know_ you had a brother—”

“Because you do not _know me_ , Lance. You are cleverer than people want to admit, which is something that you _do_ know. How can you find such a remedial-level concept _difficult_?”

Blushing again does not feel like it’s helping Lotor’s case. Then again, as he frowns at Lance — as he tries to ignore the way that Lance’s warm brown eyes make his stomach twist with a mind to tie itself in knots — Lotor can’t entirely remember what his case is supposed to be. He may need to make a few guesses about his own intentions. Or give his best efforts to an improvisation and hope that everything pans out how he would prefer. That rarely ever works out for Lotor, but perhaps the universe might decide to smile on him, after everything else it’s thrown into his path today.

But Lance keeps making that face like he’s being impossibly let down. He screws up his mouth into a deep pout, and furrows his brow, and whines — so, Lotor needs to do something, then. If nothing else, the evening rush will be impossible if Lotor lets Lance remain in a Mood like this.

“I am not trying to insult you, Lance. I am simply stating the fact that you do not know me.” Lotor huffs and tucks his cowlick behind his ear. If it makes his face even slightly more visible, then perhaps it will help put Lance’s mind at ease about this discussion. “Beyond the fact that my parents cut me off financially, you have no idea what I have been through in order to get here—”

“You could tell me more about that—”

“You do not know what I have done to survive and reach this point in my life. You do not know where I have been—”

“I don’t know where my jellybeans have been either, and I still eat them just fine—”

“How could you _possibly_ think to know me when you don’t know the first thing about my past—”

“Because I know you _now_ ,” Lance protests, halfway to begging. Whether he wants to sound like that or not, he doesn’t seem to care. “I know that you’re tall, purple-haired, and handsome. I know you love to talk about yourself, but hate to talk about your _self_ —”

“That seems like an overly fine semantic hair to split—”

“I know that you don’t like letting Kolivan know how much he gets to you with his orders,” Lance goes on as though Lotor hasn’t said a thing. “I know that you act like you only love all that goth kid music Allura won’t let you play here, but you bob your head and mouth the lyrics when ‘Le Jazz Hot’ or anything from _Cabaret_ comes on. I know that you never ask Shiro to pay you back for looking at his arm, not even reimbursing you for the parts—”

“Yes,” Lotor snaps. “Because, for my own personal peace of mind, I have no desire to do anything that my _Mother_ would do—”

“And I know that you _say_ you’re a cold, hard bitch,” Lance goes on with no signs of stopping, locking his gaze right onto Lotor as though nothing could be more important than driving his point home with all the grace of a crashing semi-truck. “I know you want to _think_ that you’re some kind of monster, and you don’t have anything going on underneath the surface, and you’re as bad as you think your parents are or even worse.”

That would be a perfect place for Lance to stop. To drop this entire subject and leave it alone, the way that he should have done before he even started. But as a customer lets themself in and Lotor slinks up to his register, Lance insists on leaning up to his side.

“You know what else I know?” he hisses while the customer hesitates, staring up at the menu and swearing that they only need a moment to be sure of what they really, _really_ want.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Lotor deadpans, “Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me with your acumen, Lance.”

“What I _know_ is…” Lance helps himself to a deep breath and a pause that he no doubt means to be dramatic.

It might have worked in his favor, had he not handed the customer enough time to order a raspberry scone and a caramel macchiato. As Lotor sets to work on making the drink, though, Lance follows him and picks up with, “I know that you’re trying to downplay what you did today — with the cash box _and_ for Shiro — because you don’t want to get attention for it. Because, unlike your parents, you actually get that bragging about charity sorta defeats the point of being charitable. And you know why you’re doing that?”

Grinning, Lance pokes at Lotor’s bicep. “Because you’re secretly a good person.”

“It could also be that I find such self-promotion tedious and gauche,” Lotor points out and means to leave it at that, not least because another customer comes stumbling in, with yet another on her heels. But before he can stop himself, he adds, “However, should you wish to discuss this further? It _is_ my birthday, and I have no plans—”

“What about pizza?” Lance beams at Lotor, snaps as close as he gets to full attention. “Or we could do Thai? Or what about—”

“What about you get back to the register and _do your job_.” Lest Lance get any negative ideas from that suggestion, Lotor gives him a smile. Hopefully, it isn’t too reminiscent of a razor-blade. “What about we discuss the particulars of dinner _after_ we get off the clock.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over on [tumblr](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com) too, if you want.


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